“That’s sad,” Basil consoled with sincerity, “but I can’t do anything about it.”
“We believe you can,” Angelo joined.
Basil again shook his head, “She is not my responsibility.”
Angelo looked to his colleague. Ravistelle’s focus was pointed, “The woman is your birth mother, Diana.”
Basil was unmoved. “Our birth mother is dead.”
“Not everything is as it seems,” Ravistelle answered.
A white cardboard box was on the table in our recently cleaned hotel room. Beside it was an envelope with my name printed in graceful, friendly pen strokes: Dr. Loche Newirth.
The letter was from Angelo Catena and it explained that the attorneys for the Winship family had been contacted by my lawyer in the United States, Alan Chatfield. It explained further that Chatfield was the official representative for my practice as well as managing the affairs of my estate. There were also words of encouragement and condolence to Bethany’s and my misfortune as therapist and client. He ended the letter with, Please set your mind at ease concerning the litigation in this matter. You are in good company, and Mr. Chatfield will take care of your affairs with diligence and integrity. Though I know that my support is but a scratch on the surface of this sorrowful circumstance. I hope that it can in some way allay your loss. Yours, most sincerely, Angelo Catena.
The envelope also contained a formal letter from Alan Chatfield himself. In short, he outlined the process that I faced, the responsibilities that he would supervise, and strangely, he called it his honor to do so. He invited me to contact him at any time with questions, but for the time being, the investigation was still being conducted and my absence had been officially authorized as temporary professional leave. Chatfield had made contact with Carol, and with her assistance he was certain that my case was open and shut—nothing to worry about.
Turning to hand the pages to Helen, I saw her sitting on the edge of the bed staring into the closet. “What’s the matter?” I asked.
“They’ve filled our closets with clothes.”
I gave her the letter. Glancing at it she said, “I’ve already seen it. And I went though most of what’s in that box during my flight over here. They provided me with my own FYI portfolio.” I turned and went for the box that supposedly contained my life history.
It was all there. Perhaps the only thing missing that detailed my existence was a recording of my first words as a toddler. There was even reference to Marcus Rearden being my psychologist with a short summary of his publications and successes in criminal psychology.
Thumbing through several file folders I found the name Diana Goddell. Lifting it out of the box I felt a chill. Ravistelle had told us her story in brief, but insisted that we discover for ourselves, with the provided documentation, her importance. It was William Greenhame who first told me of the car accident that separated Basil and me. As I read I found Greenhame’s tale was confirmed, but the details eluded me. I must’ve muttered, “I don’t get it.”
Helen was standing beside me, scanning the page over my shoulder. “What did Greenhame tell you?” She used his name in a way that startled me. It was almost too familiar.
“He told me that Diana was my mother, but we were taken to live with Jules and Rebecca Pirrip in hiding,” I said.
Our parents were Diana Goddell and Bill Hagenemer originally from Cantebury, England. Shortly after Diana gave birth to Basil, she was forced to flee the United States, and we were left in the care of Jules and Rebecca Pirrip, who were to be our surrogate parents. When we were discovered, some three months in the States, the first assassination attempt was implemented by the Orathom Wis. I pointed to the word and Helen nodded. “The Guardians of the Dream, or Dream Guard,” she said simply. My expression must have said, how the hell did you know that? She nodded again, “It’s an Elliqui word, their own language, Albion told me about it.”
I continued to scan. In short, the attempt was unsuccessful and both boys had escaped, but Jules and Rebecca were not so lucky. After the disappearance of the two children, the bodies of the parents were stored in the basement morgue. The next day they, too, were discovered missing. They were eventually found. Their bodies were chopped to pieces and spread out over a field of grass two miles north of the hospital. The cartilage-colored photographs are still etched in my memory. The macabre description pointed out that some parts, specifically, the back halves of their skulls, were never found. How Basil and I escaped was left unclear, though there were several theories. The adopted scenario was that word of the assassination attempt was leaked to friends of our mother, Diana, and help arrived just in time to intercept and get us to safety. Everyone involved, doctors, nurses and even the ambulance driver, was suspected in our disappearance.
The account picked back up a decade later with Diana living in England, and suspicions that the young boy living with her was indeed, me. Basil was adopted by Howard and the late Elizabeth Fenn of Idaho and had been rediscovered by the Orathom Wis. It was supposed that the boys had been separated to throw off pursuit.
My father Bill Hagenemer’s whereabouts were still unknown. I shook my head at the cold words, whereabouts still unknown. “Perfect,” I muttered. Colder words followed— presumed dead.
Many of the facts outlining Diana’s life were known to me. Her education, her upbringing and her daily routine were frighteningly accurate. The disturbing notion that we had been observed for so many years had not yet sunk in. When the words began to outline the last few days of her life I narrowed my focus on the page, moving it closer to my face. Every detail was correct. From her rare blood disease, to her final words, her last will and testament, to those who attended the funeral—again, precise.
The dark days of six years ago shuddered through my spirit. When I received the news I immediately booked a flight to London to find that she had already been cremated, and most of the funeral preparations were underway by friends. There was little to do but sign papers, box up the few items that she had left behind, and greet faces I’d not seen since I had left for the States to attend college. Helen, busy with her job, was unable to make the trip with me, which, at the time, was preferable. Helen had never met my mother. A day before my return home I faced a steel-grey sky at Tintagel, Cornwall, and gave my mother’s ashes to the sea. It was the only time I had cried for her.
The next page was labeled confidential in bold red letters. It’s contents filled me with dread. The Orathom Wis had finally breached Diana’s anonymity and were planning her abduction in an attempt to gain the location of her sons. Albion Ravistelle made contact with my mother and offered protection, and with his aid, her death was faked.
“As simple as that,” Helen said, still over my shoulder.
I couldn’t respond. The details continued but I could no longer see the page. This was real. I believed what I was reading to be true. My eyes were blurred. Helen turned me to her and pulled my body close. “Loche, she’s alive. Your mother is alive.”
And so she was. From behind a two-way mirror, Basil and I looked at our mother. Ravistelle and Dr. Catena stood just behind us.
“How did this happen?” I asked watching Diana rock back and forth with her eyes staring out much farther than the padded, brightly lit room would allow.
“Soon after she came into our protection she was showing signs of psychosis,” Angelo offered. “The symptoms progressed rapidly in the last three months. It wasn’t until her suicidal tendencies intensified that we took more aggressive measures.” He placed a warm hand on my shoulder, “I’m sorry that you must see her this way.”
I closed my eyes and searched for a way to come to grips with the situation. Nothing I had learned as a psychologist seemed to make a bit of sense. The only thought that kept me from sinking below the waterline was a phrase that I must have said aloud. “I need to talk to her.”
“Indeed, Doctor. Right this way.” Ravistelle immediately turned toward the door behind us and reached to open it.
“But not here,” I stopped him. “Basil and I should be alone with her for our first meeting. With all due respect, no supervision.”
Ravistelle paused, and with a sidelong look to Dr. Catena he said, “Very well. We’ll make the arrangements.”
“No,” Basil interjected. “Give us a car and we’ll take her to lunch.” A grin spread across Basil’s face.
“Take her to lunch?” Angelo gasped. “Mr. Fenn you must realize that her condition is serious and—”
“And it’s lunchtime,” I joined.
Basil continued, “We’ll have a proper mother son reunion. Not in a rubber room. This is a perfect opportunity to earn our trust. Trust us and we might trust you.”
I knew the idea was potentially dangerous, but it was the only way we could truly be alone with her. “She’ll be fine,” I said. “You have my word. Give us two hours.”
Ravistelle’s eyes weighed the request. “Very well,” he said finally. “There is a restaurante a short distance from here. You may take a car, but we will transport Mrs. Goddell.”
“Fine,” I said.
The table was set with gold and crimson napkins fringed with lace, short but elegant wineglasses and a bouquet of fresh daisies. The restaurant was quiet save one whispering couple seated a few tables away. Basil had already ordered a glass of wine. He stretched his legs out beneath the table and leaned back in his chair. I stared at him, unable to understand his ability to cope effortlessly with the chaos that surrounded us.
“What?” he asked noting my incredulity.
“How do you do it?” I asked.
“Do what?”
“Remain calm. You seem like this is just another day of the routine.”
The waitress placed Basil’s wine down before him. “No, nothing routine about this,” he smiled. “The wine is better here.”
I shook my head at him and tried to release the tension in my face.
“Maybe you should have a glass of wine, Loche. It might ease your nerves.” I thought a moment, but resolved to pass. Basil added with a grin, “Mom won’t mind.”
Then Diana Goddell entered the dining room. She wore a long pink dress, and her coat was folded and draped over her arm. Her uncertain steps and slightly bowed head told Basil and me to rise at once and escort her to our table. As we approached, her gaze remained rooted to the floor beneath her feet. Our presence seemed nothing more to her than another couple of white-coated residents helping her to her chair. We lowered her down and stood by her side. Basil and I locked eyes not knowing what to do next.
“What lovely flowers, boys,” came her melodic voice. The voice of a bird, I thought. She reached to the center of the table and lifted one of the daisies from the vase. “How pretty,” she said, “how beautiful. Quite out of season, but lovely just the same. And against these red napkins—oh, you two shouldn’t have.”
Basil and I moved quickly to our seats and stared at our mother, wide-eyed. All of her attention was on the daisy. She turned it over and inspected it closely. “Daisies can be full of bugs sometimes, you know?” At that she met my eyes. “Bugs that eat away at the stem.”
I looked to Basil. He nodded. Whether it was some shared instinctual knowing that her suggestion made us believe that we were being monitored, or the influence of popular spy movies was difficult to determine, but we gathered that her words were loaded with more than just daisy bugs. But now what, I thought. How are we to talk? Is our mother truly suffering from schizophrenia? I suddenly found myself studying her for symptoms. Observing her prior to this meeting she was clearly exhibiting signs of social isolation, a lack of care for personal hygiene, as well as excited motor activity. Dr. Catena had also recorded her speaking to voices and other beings, including her late husband and my father, Bill Hagenemer.
“Have you two seen your father?” she yelled. The waitress at the other end of the room turned, startled.
“Easy there,” Basil said.
“He’ll be very angry you came here!” Her voice slightly lower now.
“Mom,” I started, and then paused. The word mom brought tears to my eyes. I had never thought I would hear my voice call to her again. “Do you know me?”
Diana’s eyes slowly lolled in my direction. Her sharp gaze was clearly present. She did not answer, but there was the feeling that she was saying, Yes, son. Sorry that we had to meet like this. Can’t talk now, they are listening. She then began hammering the table with her fist. Basil reached out and gently placed his hand over hers. At his touch she let out a cry of obvious frustration. She looked at Basil and quickly turned away. “I can’t. I-I-I can’t. . . Billy! Billy! Tell my kids that I miss them! Billy! Where are you?”
The couple having lunch nearby didn’t respond to her ravings. Basil noticed that I was looking in their direction and he turned.
“Excuse me,” he said finally. “After you leave, which should be right about now, please let Albion know that we are doing fine.” The two didn’t move. “You two,” Basil pursued, “out the fuck you go.” The man turned in Basil’s direction with a blank expression and rose. The woman stood, as well, and they walked out the front entrance.
As soon as the door closed behind the couple our mother began raving again, only this time it was more violent. She began by crying out for her lost Billy, and with one hand she pounded the table while the other tore at the buttons of her blouse. Before we could restrain her we noticed a wire taped just below her neckline. She carried on with her rant, scanning the room as if searching for her next move. Basil decided to play along and raised his voice, “Diana. . . Mom, its okay. It’s okay.”
She stopped. “Ready?” She said, weighing our demeanor. With terrific force she yanked the wire from her breast, seized the tiny microphone at its tip, and tore it off.
Then with rehearsed precision she whispered, “How I’ve missed you, sweet Loche. Dearest Basil, I’ve so much to say— but not now. I can’t let them know that I recognize you. They will use me if I do. You are both in danger. Ravistelle is not who he seems. Beware of his plan. Don’t believe him. I must continue to feign illness in order to keep a great many secrets. Play along and when your father arrives, we’ll make up for lost time. . . Trust no one!”
The front door of the restaurant swung open and rushing in came five dark-suited men followed by Albion Ravistelle. My mother’s timing could not have been better for just as the first man stepped into the room she began crooning at the top of her lungs, “Billy, Billy! One, two, three, four. Can I have a little more? Five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. I love you!”
Albion’s expected grace seemed unabated in spite of his brisk approach. “Dr. Catena feared this might happen,” he said, without heeding the wire in my hand. The five men accompanying Albion surrounded Diana, and with gentle force, moved her swiftly out of the restaurant. “Since she’s been in our care she has had episodes of violent behavior.” He reached for the wire in my hand. “I hope that you can understand that we felt it necessary to keep an ear on the situation. And it was best that we did so, it seems. Seeing her two sons was too much for her.”
Basil stood up and was about to respond when I interrupted him. “No,” I replied with calmly, “I’m afraid she doesn’t know who we are. I was a little concerned, as well. Of course, professionally I knew it could have gone this way, but we had to try. Thank you for indulging our emotions on this one, Mr. Ravistelle. You can’t imagine the feelings the two of us are experiencing.”
Albion nodded sympathetically, “No, I’m afraid I cannot. I’m sorry that the reunion didn’t unfold as you would have liked. But there is still time.”
“I would like to see her again tomorrow, as well as look over her records.”
“I’m sure Dr. Cantena would be most willing.” Albion motioned toward the door, “Shall we return to the hotel?”
“Yes, indeed,” I said, “we’ll see you there.” As Basil followed me back to our car I could feel his eyes boring a hole in the back of my head.
The drive back to the hotel was silent.
Once the car was parked and we began the short walk to our rooms, Basil’s voice sliced the chilly October air. “What the fuck?” I turned. His eyes were angry. “What the fuck?” he said again.
“What is it?” I asked.
“What was all that bullshit with Al baby? What? It’s suddenly okay to listen to us when we don’t know about it?”
“Basil, we’ve got to play along with all of this. Of course it’s not right—especially considering what she told us. Playing along will get us more information.”
“I don’t know about you, Loche,” Basil’s nostrils flared, “but I want the fuck out of here. The only thing that was keeping me here was the possibility of helping Diana out of the freakishness—but she’s not sick.”
“Oh,” came my sarcastic reply, “and so her faking a malady means that she’s safe and happy?”
“Look, dude, first chance I get, I’m out.”
“What about Howard, or me for that matter?”
“You don’t get it do you? This is all about something much bigger than any of us. If I let anyone meddle with my work. . .” he trailed off shaking his head. “Holy shit, man, you’ve got to think this through.” He caught my eyes, “Yes, I’m concerned about you and everyone else, but, Loche, my gut tells me that the widening of the Center is dangerous. The Center and my gift is of their making,” he gestured to the sky with his hand and a rolling of his eyes. “Gods use it—to see us—to be us. Hell, I don’t know. It’s wrong for us to use it.”
“Wrong?” I asked. “What do you mean, wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he cried. “Wrong, as in, not right! Look, I used it once and got away with it. Somehow I managed to paint something that revealed only a small part of the Center. Howard was able to speak and reason after he saw it. That’s the most I could ask for, but one fuck up, one wrong paint stroke and I could have killed him. My guess is that I got lucky. I got lucky. Maybe it isn’t my ability at all. Maybe it has more to do with the person looking at it. I don’t know, their particular mental state?”
The Invasion of Heaven, Part One of the Newirth Mythology Page 19